SHERWOOD  ANDERSON 


ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


MID-AMERICAN  CHANTS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

MARCHING  MEN $1.50  net 

WINDY  McPHERSON'S  SON  .     $1.40  net 


JOHN  LANE  COMPANY:  NEW  YORK 


MID-AMERICAN 
CHANTS 

BY  SHERWOOD  ANDERSON 

AUTHOR  or  "MARCHING  MEN,"  "WINDY  MCPHERSON'S  SON,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK:  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 
LONDON:  JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 
MCMXVIII 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 
BY  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York.  U.  S.  A. 


PS 


TO 
MARION  MARGARET  ANDERSON 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 


387538 


FOREWORD 

I  do  not  believe  that  we  people  of  mid-western  Amer 
ica,  immersed  as  we  are  in  affairs,  hurried  and  harried 
through  life  by  the  terrible  engine — industrialism — have 
come  to  the  time  of  song.  To  me  it  seems  that  song  be 
longs  with  and  has  its  birth  in  the  memory  of  older  things 
than  we  know.  In  the  beaten  paths  of  life,  when  many 
generations  of  men  have  walked  the  streets  of  a  city  or 
wandered  at  night  in  the  hills  of  an  old  land,  the  singer 
arises. 

The  singer  is  neither  young  nor  old  but  within  him  al 
ways  there  is  something  that  is  very  old.  The  flavor  of 
many  lives  lived  and  of  many  gone  weary  to  the  end  of 
life  creeps  into  his  voice.  Words  run  out  beyond  the 
power  of  words.  There  is  unworldly  beauty  in  the  song 
of  him  who  sings  out  of  the  souls  of  peoples  of  old  times 
and  places  but  that  beauty  does  not  yet  belong  to  us. 

In  Middle  America  men  are  awakening.  Like  awkward 
and  untrained  boys  we  begin  to  turn  toward  maturity  and 
with  our  awakening  we  hunger  for  song.  But  in  our 
towns  and  fields  there  are  few  memory  haunted  places. 
Here  we  stand  in  roaring  city  streets,  on  steaming  coal 
heaps,  in  the  shadow  of  factories  from  which  come  only 
the  grinding  roar  of  machines.  We  do  not  sing  but  mut 
ter  in  the  darkness.  Our  lips  are  cracked  with  dust  and 
7 


with  r he  heat  of  furnaces.     We  but  mutter  and  feel  our 
way  toward  the  promise  of  song. 

For  this  book  of  chants  I  ask  only  that  it  be  allowed 
to  stand  stark  against  the  background  of  my  own  place  and 
generation.  Honest  Americans  will  not  demand  beauty 
that  is  not  yet  native  to  our  cities  and  fields.  In  secret  a 
million  men  and  women  are  trying,  as  I  have  tried  here,  to 
express  the  hunger  within  and  I  have  dared  to  put  these 
chants  forth  only  because  I  hope  and  believe  they  may  find 
an  answering  and  clearer  call  in  the  hearts  of  other  Mid- 
Americans. 

SHERWOOD  ANDERSON. 

Chicago,  February,  1918. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  CORNFIELDS n 

CHICAGO 13 

SONG  op  INDUSTRIAL  AMERICA 15 

SONG  OF  CEDRIC  THE  SILENT 19 

SONG  OF  THE  BREAK  OF  DAY 21 

SONG  OF  THE  BEGINNING  OF  COURAGE 22 

REVOLT '.23 

A  LULLABY 24 

SONG  OF  THEODORE 25 

MANHATTAN 29 

SPRING  SONG         . 30 

INDUSTRIALISM 31 

SALVO 33 

THE  PLANTING 34 

SONG  OF  THE  MIDDLE  WORLD 35 

THE  STRANGER             36 

SONG  OF  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMEN 37 

SONG  OF  STEPHEN  THE  WESTERNER 38 

SONG  TO  THE  LOST  ONES 41 

FORGOTTEN  SONG 42 

AMERICAN  SPRING  SONG 44 

THE  BEAM .46 

SONG  TO  NEW  SONG      ....  47 

SONG  FOR  DARK  NIGHTS 48 


PAGE 


THE  LOVER 49 

NIGHT  WHISPERS 50 

SONG  TO  THE  SAP 51 

RHYTHMS 52 

UNBORN 53 

NIGHT 54 

A  VISIT 55 

CHANT  TO  DAWN  IN  A  FACTORY  TOWN        .        .        .        .56 

SONG  OF  THE  MATING  TIME 58 

SONG  FOR  LONELY  ROADS 60 

SONG  LONG  AFTER 61 

SONG  OF  THE  SOUL  OF  CHICAGO 62 

SONG  OF  THE  DRUNKEN  BUSINESS  MAN      ....  64 

SONG  TO  THE  LAUGH 65 

HOSANNA 67 

WAR 68 

MID-AMERICAN  PRAYER 69 

WE  ENTER  IN 73 

DIRGE  OF  WAR 74 

LITTLE  SONG  TO  A  WESTERN  STATESMAN       ....  76 

SONG  OF  THE  BUG 77 

ASSURANCE 78 

REMINISCENT  SONG 80 

EVENING  SONG 81 

SONG  OF  THE  SINGER  82 


10 


THE  CORNFIELDS 

I  am  pregnant  with  song.  My  body  aches  but  do  not  betray 
me.  I  will  sing  songs  and  hide  them  away.  I  will  tear 
them  into  bits  and  throw  them  in  the  street.  The  streets 
of  my  city  are  full  of  dark  holes.  I  will  hide  my  songs 
in  the  holes  of  the  streets. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  night  I  awoke  and  the  bands  that 
bind  me  were  broken.  I  was  determined  to  bring  old 
things  into  the  land  of  the  new.  A  sacred  vessel  I  found 
and  ran  with  it  into  the  fields,  into  the  long  fields  where 
jthe  corn  rustles. 

All  of  the  people  of  my  time  were  bound  with  chains.  They 
had  forgotten  the  long  fields  and  the  standing  corn. 
They  had  forgotten  the  west  winds. 

Into  the  cities  my  people  had  gathered.  They  had  become 
dizzy  with  words.  Words  had  choked  them.  They 
could  not  breathe. 

On  my  knees  I  crawled  before  my  people.  I  debased  myself. 
The  excretions  of  their  bodies  I  took  for  my  food.  Into 
the  ground  I  went  and  my  body  died.  I  emerged  in  the 
corn,  in  the  long  cornfields.  My  head  arose  and  was 
touched  by  the  west  wind.  The  light  of  old  things,  of 
beautiful  old  things,  awoke  in  me.  In  the  cornfields 
the  sacred  vessel  is  set  up. 

I  will  renew  in  my  people  the  worship  of  gods.    I  will  set 
up  for  a  king  before  them.    A  king  shall  arise  before  my 
ii 


people.     The  sacred  vessel  shall  be  filled  with  the  sweet 
oil  of  the  corn. 

The  flesh  of  my  body  is  become  good.  With  your  white 
teeth  you  may  bite  me.  My  arm  that  was  withered  has 
become  strong.  In  the  quiet  night  streets  of  my  city  old 
things  are  awake. 

I  awoke  and  the  bands  that  bind  me  were  broken.  I  was 
determined  to  bring  love  into  the  hearts  of  my  people. 
The  sacred  vessel  was  put  into  my  hands  and  I  ran  with 
it  into  the  fields.  In  the  long  cornfields  the  sacred  vessel 
is  set  up. 


12 


CHICAGO 

I  am  mature,  a  man  child,  in  America,  in  the  West,  in  the 
great  valley  of  the  Mississippi.  My  head  arises  above 
the  cornfields.  I  stand  up  among  the  new  corn. 

I  am  a  child,  a  confused  child  in  a  confused  world.  There 
are  no  clothes  made  that  fit  me.  The  minds  of  men 
cannot  clothe  me.  Great  projects  arise  within  me.  I 
have  a  brain  and  it  is  cunning  and  shrewd. 

I  want  leisure  to  become  beautiful,  but  there  is  no  leisure. 
Men  should  bathe  me  with  prayers  and  with  weeping, 
but  there  are  no  men. 

Now — from  now — from  to-day  I  shall  do  deeds  of  fiery 
meaning.  Songs  shall  arise  in  my  throat  and  hurt  me. 

I  am  a  little  thing,  a  tiny  little  thing  on  the  vast  prairies. 
I  know  nothing.  My  mouth  is  dirty.  I  cannot  tell  what 
I  want.  My  feet  are  sunk  in  the  black  swampy  land,  but 
I  am  a  lover.  I  love  life.  In  the  end  love  shall  save  me. 

The  days  are  long — it  rains — it  snows.  I  am  an  old  man. 
I  am  sweeping  the  ground  where  my  grave  shall  be. 

Look  upon  me,  my  beloved,  my  lover  who  does  not  come. 
I  am  raw  and  bleeding,  a  new  thing  in  a  new  world.  I 
run  swiftly  o'er  bare  fields.  Listen — there  is  the  sound 
of  the  tramping  of  many  feet.  Life  is  dying  in  me.  I 
am  old  and  palsied.  I  am  just  at  the  beginning  of  my 
life. 

13 


Do  you  not  see  that  I  am  old,  O  my  beloved?  Do  you 
not  understand  that  I  cannot  sing,  that  my  songs  choke 
me?  Do  you  not  see  that  I  am  so  young  I  cannot  find 
the  word  in  the  confusion  of  words? 


SONG  OF  INDUSTRIAL  AMERICA 

They  tell  themselves  so  many  little  lies,  my  beloved.  Now 
wait,  little  one — we  can't  sing.  We  are  standing  in  a 
crowd,  by  a  bridge,  in  the  West.  Hear  the  voices — 
turn  around — let's  go  home — I  am  tired.  They  tell 
themselves  so  many  little  lies. 

You  remember  in  the  night  we  arose.  We  were  young. 
There  was  smoke  in  the  passage  and  you  laughed.  Was 
it  good — that  black  smoke?  Look  away  to  the  streams 
and  the  lake.  We're  alive.  See  my  hand — how  it 
trembles  on  the  rail. 

Here  is  song,  here  in  America,  here  now,  in  our  time.  Now 
wait — I'll  go  to  the  train.  I'll  not  swing  off  into  tunes. 
I'm  all  right — I  just  want  to  talk. 

You  watch  my  hand  on  the  rail  of  this  bridge.  I  press 
down.  The  blood  goes  down — there.  That  steadies  me 
— it  makes  me  all  right. 

Now  here's  how  it's  going  to  come — the  song,  I  mean.  I've 
watched  things,  men  and  faces — I  know. 

First  there  are  the  broken  things — myself  and  the  others. 
I  don't  mind  that — I'm  gone — shot  to  pieces.  I'm  part 
of  the  scheme — I'm  the  broken  end  of  a  song  myself. 
We  are  all  that,  here  in  the  West,  here  in  Chicago. 
Tongues  clatter  against  teeth.  There's  nothing  but  shrill 
screams  and  a  rattle.  That  had  to  be — it's  a  part  of  the 
scheme. 

15 


Souls,  dry  souls,  rattle  around. 
Winter  of  song.    Winter  of  song. 

Now,  faint  little  voices  do  lift  up.  They  are  swept  away 
in  the  void — that's  true  enough.  It  had  to  be  so  from 
the  very  first.  Pshaw — I'm  steady  enough — let  me  alone. 
Keokuk,  Tennessee,  Michigan,  Chicago,  Kalamazoo — 
don't  the  names  in  this  country  make  you  fairly  drunk? 
We'll  stand  by  this  brown  stream  for  hours.  I'll  not  be 
swept  away.  Watch  my  hand — how  steady  it  is.  To 
catch  this  song  and  sing  it  would  do  much — make  much 
dear. 

Come  close  to  me  warm  little  thing.  It  is  night — I  am 
cold.  When  I  was  a  boy  in  my  village  here  in  the  West, 
I  always  knew  all  the  old  men.  How  sweet  they  were 
— quite  Biblical  too — makers  of  wagons  and  harness  and 
plows — sailors  and  soldiers  and  pioneers.  We  got  Walt 
and  Abraham  out  of  that  lot. 

Then  a  change  came. 

Drifting  along.    Drifting  along. 
Winter  of  song.     Winter  of  song. 

|You  know  my  city — Chicago  triumphant — factories  and 
marts  and  the  roar  of  machines — horrible,  terrible,  ugly 
and  brutal. 

It  crushed  things  clown  and  down.  Nobody  wanted  to  hurt. 
They  didn't  want  to  hurt  me  or  you.  They  were  caught 
themselves.  I  know  the  old  men  here — millionaires.  I've 

16 


always  known  old  men  all  my  life.    I'm  old  myself.    You 
would  never  guess  how  old  I  am. 

Can  a  singer  arise  and  sing  in  this  smoke  and  grime*?  Can 
he  keep  his  throat  clear ?  Can  his  courage  survive? 

I'll  tell  you  what  it  is — now  you  be  still.  To  Hell  with 
you.  I'm  an  old  empty  barrel  floating  in  the  stream — 
Chat's  what  I  am.  You  stand  away.  I've  come  to  life. 
My  arms  lift  up — I  begin  to  swim. 

Hell  and  damnation — turn  me  loose.  The  floods  come  on. 
That  isn't  the  roar  of  the  trains  at  all.  It's  the  flood — 
the  terrible,  horrible  flood  turned  loose. 

Winter  of  song.     Winter  of  song. 
Carried  along.     Carried  along. 

Now  in  the  midst  of  the  broken  waters  of  my  civilization 
rhythm  begins.  Clear  above  the  flood  I  raise  my  ringing 
voice.  In  the  disorder  and  darkness  of  the  night,  in  the 
wind  and  the  washing  waves,  I  shout  to  my  brothers — 
lost  in  the  flood. 

Little  faint  beginnings  of  things— old  things  dead — sweet 
old  things — a  life  lived  in  Chicago — in  the  West — in  the 
whirl  of  industrial  America. 

God  knows  you  might  have  become  something  else— -just 
like  me.  You  might  have  made  soft  little  tunes — written 
cynical  little  ditties,  eh?  Why  the  devil  didn't  you  make 
some  money  and  own  an  automobile? 


Do  you  believe — now  listen — I  do.  Say,  you — now  listen — 
do  you  believe  the  hand  of  God  reached  down  to  me  in 
the  flood'?  I  do.  'Twas  like  a  streak  of  fire  along  my 
back.  That's  a  lie,  of  course.  The  face  of  God  looked 
down  at  me,  over  the  rim  of  the  world. 

you  see  we  are  all  a  part  of  something,  here  in  the 
West?  We're  trying  to  break  through.  I'm  a  song  my 
self,  the  broken  end  of  a  song  myself. 

Ve  have  to  sing,  you  see,  here  in  the  darkness.  All  men 
have  to  sing — poor  broken  things.  We  have  to  sing  here 
in  the  darkness  in  the  roaring  flood.  We  have  to  find 
each  other.  Have  you  courage  to-night  for  a  song?  Lift 
your  voices.  Come. 


18 


SONG  OF  CEDRIC  THE  SILENT 

Songs  come  to  my  lips  every  hour.  I  shall  hurl  my  songs 
down  the  winds  of  the  world.  Like  a  blow,  a  kiss,  a 
caress,  my  songs  shall  come. 

Like  a  guest  I  am  come  into  the  house,  the  terrible  house. 
So  gentle  and  quiet  I  come  they  do  not  know  me.  The 
son  of  Irwin  and  Emma  I  am,  here  in  America,  come  into 
a  kingship. 

I  would  destroy  and  build  up.  I  would  set  up  new  kings. 
The  impatience  has  gone  out  of  me.  Hatred  and  evil 
I  have  put  far  away. 

Do  you  remember  when  you  crept  close  to  me,  wanting  to 
touch  my  body*?  What  a  night — how  it  rained. 

How  could  you  know,  how  could  you  know  in  me  there  was 
oblivion*? 

The  terrible  poison  of  my  body  has  laid  waste  the  land. 
I  embrace  Hell  for  you,  go  to  my  damnation  for  my  love 
of  you. 

Into  the  land  of  my  fathers,  from  Huron  to  Keokuk,  beauty 
shall  come — out  of  the  black  ground,  out  of  the  deep 
black  ground. 

Squaw  man,  red  man,  old  and  decrepit,  into  the  mighty 
wheels  of  the  engine  I  hurl  these  songs. 


Twenty  weeks  I  lay  on  the  bleak  hillside,  waiting  for  you. 
When  you  came  and  spoke  how  I  trembled.  Down  the 
lane,  through  the  woods  to  the  meadows  you  ran.  Then 
I  knew. 

Broad  long  fields.    Wheat  that  stands  up. 

Cedric,  the  son  of  Irwin  and  Emma,  stand  up.  Give  your 
life,  give  your  soul  to  America  now.  Cedric,  be  strong. 


20 


SONG  OF  THE  BREAK  OF  DAY 

I  am  tired  and  very  old — just  the  muscles  ot  my  arms  still 

alive. 
Cunning  little  muscles,  betraying,  not  caring  how  very  old 

and  tired  I  am. 
Did  you  think,  O  my  beloved,  I  was  young  ?     Did  my 

laughing  face  and  laughing  eyes  tell  you  lies? 
In  Chicago  many  faces,  drifting,  perplexing,  confusing,  de 
stroying,  betraying,  confounding. 
Now  stop — little  love  warm  and  still — try  to  think. 
Nod  your  head.    Sway!    Wait!    Try  to  believe. 
Stronger,  deeper,  stronger — good  arms,  sweep  them  forth — 

over   the   land — wide — wide — over  the   land — break — 

break — come  to  life. 
Ninety,  a  thousand,  a  million,  a  nation.    Corn  in  long  fields 

and  slender  young  wheat.     See  my  young  strength  how 

it  grows.    I  am  casting  you  forth. 
Buried  away  in  the  mines  in  the  hills — strong  arm,  long 

arm.    Gripping  the  gold  and  the  ashes  of  ages.    Did  you 

think  I  was  old  and  too  tired  to  find  love? 
Love, 
I  awake. 


21 


SONG   OF   THE   BEGINNING   OF   COURAGE 

I  am  come  with  infinite  slowness  into  my  kingship.  At 
night  I  lay  down  by  the  window.  The  little  flat  bands 
that  bind  my  body  were  tense.  I  am  the  first  to  come 
into  the  new  kingship. 

By  the  long  aisles  of  the  corn  you  must  go,  little  brothers, 
narrow  and  long  the  way.  The  corn  in  its  struggle  whis 
pers  and  sways.  Courage — always  new  courage. 

In — deeper  in — far  from  the  stars — let  the  wide  soft  corn 
leaves  whisper  to  you. 

Crush  and  trample,  brother,  brother — crush  and  trample 

'til  you  die. 
Do  not  hold  thy  hand  from  strangling — crush  and  trample 

3 til  you  die. 

Back  of  the  corn — back  of  the  corn — bold  and  free  my 

kingdoms  lie. 

Ninety  men  upon  the  bridges    ninety  swift  hawks  in  the 
sky. 

I  am  come  to  the  face  of  the  gods  through  the  cornfields. 

Back  to  the  womb  of  my  mother  I  go. 
Ache — ache — ache  and  behold  me.    Lay  thy  hot  hands  on 

my  thigh. 

Crush  and  trample,  brother,  brother — crush  and  trample 

'til  you  die. 
Do  not  hold  thy  hand  from  strangling — crush  and  trample 

'til  you  die. 

22 


REVOLT 

Bring  hither  the  beams  of  the  corncribs,  my  children.  The 
dung  heaps  are  burned.  Strong  hands  have  gripped  the 
rope  whereby  the  horses  were  tied.  The  fish  nets  of  the 
Northwest  and  the  sheep  gates  of  Michigan  are  opened 
to  me. 

I  have  put  my  neck  and  my  hands  to  the  work,  O  my  chil 
dren.  How  black  your  eyes  have  become.  They  gleam 
in  the  darkness.  The  souls  of  Ulysses  and  of  Abraham 
have  been  opened  to  me.  By  the  coal  heaps  near  the 
factory  door  my  men  are  assembled. 

Tipping  the  water-gates  of  the  rivers  the  night  riders  assem 
ble.  In  the  cities  the  grey  little  foxes  lie  low.  By  the 
howling  of  dogs  in  the  silence  the  decay  of  men  is  pro 
claimed. 

Long  nights  we  were  weeping  the  prelude,  my  brothers. 
The  madness  and  washing  of  hands  has  been  done.  The 
sweetness  of  apples — the  fatness  of  cornfields — the  whor 
ing  of  men  for  strange  gods  is  begun. 


A  LULLABY 

I  am  become  one  with  you.    I  am  old.    I  am  tired. 

Watch  my  hands  how  they  slip.  One  by  one  the  fingers 
let  go. 

Into  my  house  comes  my  enemy  bold.  His  beard  sweeps 
the  floor.  He  is  old.  He  is  hatred  and  lust. 

Soft  creeps  the  night  in  the  passages  old — creeping  along — 
creeping  along.  Soft  creeps  the  wind  in  the  old  standing 
corn. 

Into  my  body  my  enemy  comes.  Watch  my  fingers  let  go — 
slow- — oh,  so  slow. 


24 


SONG  OF  THEODORE 

0  my  beloved — men  and  women — I  come  into  your  presence. 
It  is  night  and  I  am  alone  and  I  come  to  you.     I  open  the 
window  of  my  room  so  that  you  may  come  in.    I  am  a 
lover  and  I  would  touch  you  with  the  fingers  of  my  hands. 
In  my  eyes  a  fire  burns.    The  strength  of  my  imaginings 
is  beyond  words  to  record.     I  see  the  loveliness  in  you 
that  is  hidden  away.     I  take  something  from  you.     See,' 
I  embrace  you.    I  take  you  in  my  arms  and  I  run  away. 

1  am  alone  in  my  room  at  night  and  in  me  is  the  spirit  of 
the  old  priests.     What  cunning  fingers  I  have.     They 
make  intricate  designs  on  the  white  paper.     See,  the  de 
signs  are  words  and  sentences.    I  am  not  a  priest  but  a 
lover,  a  new  kind  of  lover,  one  who  is  of  the  flesh  and 
not  of  the  flesh.     My  cunning  fingers  are  of  the  flesh. 
They  are  like  me  and  I  would  make  love  always,  to  all 
people — men  and  women — here — in  Chicago — in  America 
; — everywhere — always — forever — while  my  life  lasts. 

I  am  afraid.  Do  you  not  understand,  O  my  beloved,  that 
I  am  afraid?  In  me  is  the  old  inheritance.  The  fires 
that  burn  have  not  burned  me.  I  have  not  suffered 
enough. 

Now,  my  beloved,  I  am  not  pure  and  I  dare  not  come  to 
you.  I  run  away  and  hide.  I  am  a  priest  and  my  head 
is  not  shaven.  I  sit  in  my  room  and  my  doors  are  bolted. 
I  tremble  and  am  afraid. 

25 


It  is  then  that  you  come  to  me,  O  my  beloved.  Men  and 
women  you  crowd  in  upon  me.  Through  the  walls  and 
the  bolted  doors  you  come  crowding,  hurrying.  I  was 
afraid  and  trembled,  but  I  have  become  unafraid. 


I  cannot  tell  how  many  things  there  are  that  I  understand. 
I  understand  all,  everything.  The  words  of  the  men  and 
women  who  have  come  in  to  me  are  without  meaning,  but 
the  air  of  my  room  has  brought  health  to  me. 


I  was  determined  to  withdraw  from  the  world,  to  be  a  priest 
with  a  shaven  head.  In  fancy  I  saw  myself  go  into  the 
forest,  into  the  dense  silence.  For  days  I  lay  like  a  stone 
in  the  midst  of  the  silence. 


My  body  was  bathed  in  a  cold  stream.  Again  and  again 
my  body  was  bathed.  The  cold  water  ran  over  my  body 
and  chilled  the  warm  blood  that  runs  beneath  the  surface 
of  the  skin. 

The  inside  of  my  body  was  made  clean.  My  body  was  fed 
on  the  white  meat  of  nuts  that  fell  from  the  trees.  I 
crunched  the  nuts  with  my  white  teeth.  How  powerful 
my  body  had  become. 

In  the  rain  in  the  streets  of  my  city  I  stood.  My  clothes 
were  foul.  In  the  woven  cloth  that  covered  my  body  the 
dust  of  my  city  had  lodged.  The  dust  of  my  civilization 
was  in  my  soul.  I  was  a  murderer — a  weeping  prostitute 

26 


standing  by  a  wall.  I  was  a  strong  man  with  strong 
arms.  In  a  jail  they  had  lodged  me.  I  was  one  con 
demned  to  be  hanged.  There  was  filth  on  my  shoes — 
my  shoes  were  filthy. 

It  was  night  and  I  had  come  into  my  room.  I  was  cold  and 
my  body  trembled.  I  was  afraid.  The  pencil  was 
gripped  in  my  cunning  fingers.  Words  came.  Over  the 
paper  my  pencil  ran — making  the  words — saying  the 
words. 

There  is  a  song  in  the  pencil  that  is  held  in  my  cunning 
fingers.  Out — out — out — dear  words.  The  words  have 
saved  me.  There  is  rhythm  in  the  pencil.  It  sings  and 
swings.  It  sings  a  great  song.  It  is  singing  the  song  of 
my  life.  It  is  bringing  life  in  to  me,  into  my  close  place. 

Out — out — out — out  of  the  room  I  go.  I  am  become  pure. 
To  the  homes  of  the  people  I  go.  Here  in  these  words 
I  am  become  a  man.  The  passions  and  lusts  of  men  have 
taken  hold  of  me. 

I  have  gone  into  the  woman's  chamber,  into  the  secret  places 
of  all  women  and  all  men  I  have  gone.  I  have  made  love 
to  them.  Before  me  in  the  chamber  lies  the  naked  body 
of  a  woman.  She  is  strong  and  young. 

Do  you  not  see,  O  my  beloved,  that  I  am  become  strong 
to  caress  the  woman !  I  caress  all  men  and  all  women. 
I  make  myself  naked.  I  am  unafraid.  I  am  a  pure 
thing.  I  bind  and  heal.  By  the  running  of  the  pencil 

27 


over  the  white  paper  I  have  made  myself  pure.  I  have 
made  myself  whole.  I  am  unafraid.  The  song  of  the 
pencil  has  done  it. 

What  cunning  fingers  I  have.  They  make  intricate  designs 
on  the  white  paper.  My  cunning  fingers  are  of  the  flesh. 
They  are  like  me  and  I  would  make  love  always — to  all 
people — men  and  women — here — in  Chicago — in  America 
-. — everywhere — always — forever— while  my  life  lasts. 


28 


MANHATTAN 

From  the  place  of  the  cornfields  I  went  into  the  new  places. 
I  went  into  the  city.  How  men  laughed  and  put  their 
hands  into  mine. 

To  a  high  place  overlooking  the  city  I  climbed.  Men  came 
running  to  me.  On  the  stairways  there  was  the  endless 
threshing  of  numberless  feet.  The  faces  of  women  ap 
peared.  The  soft  lips  of  women  were  on  my  hands  and 
my  sinewy  arms.  Understanding  came  in  to  me. 

I  am  of  the  West,  the  long  West  of  the  sunsets.  I  am  of  the 
deep  fields  where  the  corn  grows.  The  sweat  of  apples 
is  in  me.  I  am  the  beginning  of  things  and  the  end  of 
things. 

To  me  there  came  men  whose  hands  were  withered.  My 
soldiers  were  small  and  their  eyes  were  sunken.  In  them 
was  the  pain  that  sobs,  the  great  pain  that  sobs.  The 
sobbing  of  pain  was  like  the  threshing  of  feet  on  the 
stairways  that  went  up  from  the  city. 

In  the  morning  I  arose  from  my  bed  and  was  healed.  To 
the  cornfields  I  went  laughing  and  singing.  The  men 
who  are  old  have  entered  into  me.  As  I  stood  on  the 
high  place  above  the  city  they  kissed  me.  The  caress  of 
those  who  are  weary  has  come  into  the  cornfields. 


29 


SPRING   SONG 

In  the  forest,  amid  old  trees  and  wet  dead  leaves,  a  shrine. 

Men  on  the  wet  leaves  kneeling. 

The  spirit  of  God  in  the  air  above  a  shrine. 

Now,  America,  you  press  your  lips  to  mine, 
Feel  on  your  lips  the  throbbing  of  my  blood. 
Christ,  come  to  life  and  life  calling, 
Sweet  and  strong. 

Spring.    God  in  the  air  above  old  fields. 

Farmers  marking  fields  for  the  planting  of  the  corn. 

Fields  marked  for  corn  to  stand  in  long  straight  aisles. 

In  the  spring  I  press  your  body  down  on  wet  cold  new- 
plowed  ground. 
Men,  give  your  souls  to  me. 
I  would  have  my  sacred  way  with  you. 

In  the  forest,  amid  old  trees  and  wet  dead  leaves,  a  shrine. 

Men  rising  from  the  kneeling  place  to  sing. 

Everywhere  in  the  fields  now  the  orderly  planting  of  corn. 


INDUSTRIALISM 

In  the  long  house  of  hate, 

In  the  long  hours, 

In  the  never-ending  day; 

Over  the  fields — her  black  hair  flying- 

My  mistress 

Terrible 

Gigantic 

Gaunt  and  drear. 

I've  got  to  die — you've  got  to  die. 

We  do  not  fancy  your  thin  hands, 

That  reach  and  reach  into  the  vase 

Where  old  things  rust. 

Death  to  you — 

Now. 

Thin  dream  of  beauty, 

YOU  be  gone. 

Our  fathers  in  the  village  streets 

Had  flowing  beards  and  they  believed. 

I  saw  them  run  into  the  night — 

Crushed. 

Old  knowledge  and  all  old  beliefs 

By  your  hand  killed — 

My  mistress 

Grim. 

Awake  and  shake  thy  dusty  locks. 
Come,  drive  the  soldiers  to  their  toil. 
A  million  men  my  mistress  needs, 


To  kiss 
And  kill 
For  her  desire, 
To-night — 

Arise. 

Out  of  tne  vase  the  long  thin  hand, 
To  grip  the  sword  that  men  forget 
My  mistress  waits  beside  the  mill 
To  kiss  the  sword 
Of  Christ 
Or  you, 
Who  dare 
For  her. 


SALVO 

Thin  rift  in  time, 

A  wedge  of  time,  forever  driven  deep  'twixt  days  and  nights, 

A  moment  only — all  winds  suspended  and  all  day-dreams 

stopped, 

The  clock  upon  the  wall  a  dreary  lie, 
Then  death  to  that  and  me. 

By  a  chair  a  woman  and  a  pair  of  eyes — eyes  luminous  and 

sure. 

No  word  spoken. 

Love  leaping,  whispering,  clamoring,  crying, 
Love  making  time  halt  and  creating  me. 

Now  my  old  city  sees  me  pick  my  burden  up. 

All  sweet  dreams  fade. 

Words,  musical  and  dear,  will  ne'er  be  spoken  now. 

I  follow  plows  that  mark  my  furrows  through  the  world. 

Now  you  watch  me,  brothers, 

Men  and  boys  and  new-made  wives. 

Hear  with  glowing  wonder  the  story  of  my  ways. 

The  burden  from  my  back  I  pass  to  you. 

I  go  my  way,  unburdened  and  alone. 

Out  of  the  West  and  East  men  came  to  look  at  me. 
Eyes  gleamed  in  darkness  and  the  world  was  pure. 
Grown  old  by  wondrous  looks  and  dreaming  out  of  time 
I  pass  and  do  not  come  to  life  again. 


33 


THE  PLANTING 

'Tis  then  I  am  the  tiny  thing, 

A  little  bug,  a  figure  wondrous  small,  a  sower  on  prairies 

limitless. 

Into  her  arms  I  creep  and  wait  and  dream  that  I  may  serve, 
And  do  the  work  of  gods  in  that  vast  place. 

Awake — asleep — remade  to  serve, 

I  stretch  my  arms  and  lie — intense — expectant — 'til  her 

moment  comes. 
Then  seeds  leap  forth. 
The  mighty  hills  rise  up  and  gods  and  tiny  things  like  me 

proclaim  their  joy. 

Man  in  the  making — seeds  in  the  ground, 
O'er  all  my  western  country  now  a  wind. 
Rich,  milky  smell  of  cornfields,  dancing  nymphs, 
And  tiny  men  that  turn  away  to  dream. 


34 


SONG  OF  THE  MIDDLE  WORLD 

I  want  falling  light  and  an  evening  sky, 

I  want  to  sing  my  songs  low  crooning  to  the  moon. 

I  want  men  silent  and  the  creeping  grace  of  old  gods  in  their 

hearts. 

I  want  night,  soft  darkness  and  damp  smells 
When  my  songs  sing. 

From  the  Allegheny  Mountains  where  the  mine  fires  flare, 

To  the  low  hills  of  Nebraska  where  my  farmers  dwell, 

Let  my  songs  sweep  forth. 

Let  gods  listen  and  let  men  stand  up. 

Let  my  songs  sing. 

Great  cradle-land  of  giants  where  my  cornfields  lie, 

Let  me  cradle  my  men, 

Let  me  cradle  my  men. 

Let  the  factories  close  and  the  voices  die. 

Let  me  sing  now. 

I  have  been  to  the  Dakotas  when  the  fields  were  plowed. 

I  have  stood  by  the  Ohio  when  the  dawn  broke  forth. 

Promise  of  corn, 

Promise  of  corn, 

Long  aisles  running  into  the  dawn  and  beyond 

To  the  throne  of  gods. 

I  want  falling  light  and  an  evening  sky, 

I  want  to  sing  my  songs  low  crooning  to  the  moon. 

I  want  to  bring  gods  home  to  sweating  men  in  corn-rows  and 

in  shops 
When  my  songs  sing. 

35 


THE   STRANGER 

Her  eyes  are  like  the  seeds  of  melons.    Her  breasts  are  thin 

and  she  walks  awkwardly.    I  am  in  love  with  her. 
With  her  I  have  adventured  into  a  new  love.     In  all  the 

world  there  is  no  such  love  as  I  have  for  her. 
I  took  hold  of  her  shoulder  and  walked  beside  her.     We 

went  out  of  the  city  into  the  fields.    By  the  still  road  we 

went  and  it  was  night.    We  were  long  alone  together. 
The  bones  of  her  shoulder  are  thin.    The  sharp  bone  of  her 

shoulder  has  left  a  mark  on  my  hand. 
I  am  come  up  into  the  wind  like  a  ship.    Her  thin  hand  is 

laid  hold  of  me.     My  land  where  the  corn  nods  -has 

become  my  land. 
I  am  come  up  into  the  wind  like  a  ship  and  the  thin  hand 

of  woman  is  laid  hold  of  me. 


SONG  OF  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMEN 

Have  you  nothing  to  offer  but  bread  and  your  bodies — • 
Women,  my  women? 

Long  nights  I  have  lain  by  you,  sleepless  and  thinking — 
Sisters,  my  sisters. 

In  the  doorway  of  the  warehouse  a  tiny  twisted  body. 
Hark,  the  night  is  long.    Let  us  talk.    One !    Two !    Three ! 
One!    Two!    Three!    March!    March  away! 

Come  to  me,  sisters,  come  home  to  the  cornfields — 
Long  have  I  ached  for  you,  body  and  brain. 
Have  you  nothing  to  offer  but  bread  and  your  bodies — 
How  long  must  I  wait  for  you,  sisters,  in  vain? 


SONG  OF  STEPHEN  THE  WESTERNER 

I  am  of  the  West — out  of  the  land — out  of  the  velvety 
creeping  and  straining.  I  have  resolved.  I  have  been 
born  like  a  wind.  I  came  sweating  and  steaming  out  of 
the  cornrows. 

Deep  in  the  corn  I  lay — ages  and  ages — folded  and  broken 
— old  and  benumbed.  My  mother  the  black  ground 
suckled  me.  When  I  was  strong  I  builded  a  house  facing 
the  east.  The  hair  on  my  arm  was  like  the  long  grass 

by  the  edge  of  the  forests. 

i 

Behold,  I  am  one  who  has  been  building  a  house  and  driving 
nails  with  stones  that  break.  The  hammer  of  song  has 
been  given  me.  I  am  one  with  the  old  gods — an  American 
from  Dakota — from  the  deep  valley  of  the  Mississippi — 
from  Illinois — from  Iowa — from  Ohio. 

Would  you  know  what  has  befallen5? 

In  my  warm  ignorance  I  lay  dead  in  the  corn-rows.    On  the 

wind  came  rumors  and  cries.     I  squirmed  and  writhed. 

I  was  frightened  and  wept.     My  fathers  emerged  from 

the  corn  and  killed  each  other  in  battle. 

I  am  a  man  come  into  the  city  of  men  out  of  the  mouth  of 

the  long  house.    Hear  the  wind  in  the  caves  of  the  hills ! 

My  strength  is  terrible.    I  stand  in  the  streets  and  shout. 

My  children  are  as  the  dust  of  city  streets  for  numbers. 

I  am  so  small  men  do  not  see  me.     So  tiny  am  I  that  I 

walk  on  the  ball  of  your  eye. 
38 


Saddle  a  horse — sweep  away, 
Saddle  a  horse  for  liberty. 
Harry  my  men — harry  my  men. 
Broken  ground  for  mine  and  me. 

In  the  long  house  at  evening  the  old  things  were  sweet. 
The  nuts  and  the  raisins  lay  deep  on  the  tables.  The 
women  cut  white  bread  with  long  knives.  They  hid  the 
sweets  of  their  bodies  with  clothes.  They  knew  old  things 
but  had  forgotten  old  singers. 

On  the  straw  in  the  stables  sat  Enid  the  maker  of  harness. 
Beside  him  sat  old  men.  Long  we  lay  listening  and 
listening.  On  their  haunches  they  sat  and  talked  of  old 
gods.  Above  the  sound  of  the  tramping  of  the  hoofs  of 
the  horses  arose  always  the  voices  of  old  men. 

Now,  my  beloved,  I  have  fallen  down  from  my  horse.  I 
have  returned  to  kill  my  beloved  on  the  threshing  floor. 
My  throat  is  sore  with  the  dust  of  new  cities.  The  voices 
of  new  men  shake  the  drums  of  my  ears.  I  await  long 
in  the  darkness  the  sweet  voice  of  old  things,  but  the  new 
death  has  put  its  hand  into  mine.  I  have  killed  my 
beloved  in  the  place  of  the  deep  straw  and  cast  her  away. 

Saddle  a  horse — sweep  away. 
Break-neck  speed  to  liberty. 
Harry  my  men — harry  my  men. 
Broken  ground  for  mine  and  me. 

I  am  of  the  West — out  of  the  land — out  of  the  velvety 
creeping  and  straining.     It  is  day  and  I  stand  raw  and 
39 


new  by  the  coal-heaps.  I  go  into  the  place  of  darkness 
at  the  beginning  of  the  new  house.  I  shall  build  my 
house  with  great  hammers.  New  song  is  tearing  the  cords 
of  my  throat.  I  am  become  a  man  covered  with  dust. 
I  have  kissed  the  black  hands  of  new  brothers  and  cannot 
return  to  bury  my  beloved  at  the  door  of  the  long  house. 


40 


SONG  TO  THE  LOST  ONES 

Soft  thy  feet  on  the  floor  of  the  desert, 

In  the  night — 

Running — 

Desperate  and  breathless. 

Blood  on  the  sands  of  the  desert  drying, 
Drops  of  blood  on  the  hot  sand  drying, 
Blood  from  the  veins  of  my  beloved 
Pouring  out  on  the  desert. 

Soft  in  the  night  the  rustle  of  corn  leaves 

Young  men  into  the  cities  pouring, 

Blood  from  the  veins  of  young  men  pouring  into  the  cities. 


FORGOTTEN  SONG 

Always  at  the  kitchen  door  the  gaunt  wolf  stands. 

Grey  wolf — old  wolf — evil  and  old — 

Keep  ever  thy  hungry  gleaming  eyes, 

Thy  fangs  to  kill, 

Thy  heart1  of  hate. 

Now  my  brother  infallible,  stay  in  the  darkness  there. 

Long,  long  ago,  when  days  were  new, 

Fresh  born  of  cornfields,  undefiled, 

Man  fought  the  wolf  in  open  fight, 

Under  the  moon 

They  fought  at  night, 

Into  his  body  the  wolf-love,  won  in  the  darkness  there. 

There  is  a  tale  men  cannot  tell, 
Tired  women  telling, 
Tired  men  telling, 

Echoes  of  tales  through  the  halls  of  souls, 
Telling  of  ghosts  by  kitchen  doors,  dim  in  the  darkness 
there. 

Grey  wolf  lying  in  the  snow, 
Lie  low, 
Lie  low. 

Soft  lips  clinging  in  the  night, 

God's  challenge  to  all  in  the  bitter  night,  low  in  the  dark 
ness  there. 

Far  in  men's  minds  the  cry  of  wolves, 
Old  primal  things  and  snow-clad  hills, 
42 


In  many  hearts  a  challenge  grim. 

Run  with  me, 

My  lady  fair, 

Run  with  my  wolf  to-night. 

Always  at  the  kitchen  door  the  cold  white  face 
And  cold  white  teeth  of  want  and  woe. 
Run  forever,  lady  fair, 
Track  the  grey  wolf  to  his  lair — 

A  challenge  to  you  in  the  bitter  night,  loud  in  the  darkness 
there. 

Always  by  the  kitchen  door  the  gaunt  wolf  stands. 

Grey  wolf — old  wolf — evil  and  old — 

Keep  ever  thy  hungry  gleaming  eyes, 

Thy  fangs  to  kill, 

Thy  heart  of  hate. 

Now  my  brother  magnificent,  stay  in  the  darkness  there. 


43 


AMERICAN  SPRING  SONG 

In  the  spring,  when  winds  blew  and  farmers  were  plowing 

fields, 
It  came  into  my  mind  to  be  glad  because  of  my  brutality. 

Along  a  street  I  went  and  over  a  bridge. 

I  went  through  many  streets  in  my  city  and  over  many 
bridges. 

Men  and  women  I  struck  with  my  fists  and  my  hands  began 
to  bleed. 

Under  a  bridge  I  crawled  and  stood  trembling  with  joy 
At  the  river's  edge. 

Because  it  was  spring  and  soft  sunlight  came  through  the 

cracks  of  the  bridge 
I  tried  to  understand  myself. 

Out  of  the  mud  at  the  river's  edge  I  moulded  myself  a  god, 
A  grotesque  little  god  with  a  twisted  face, 
A  god  for  myself  and  my  men. 

You  see  now,  brother,  how  it  was. 

I  was  a  man  with  clothes  made  by  a  Jewish  tailor, 
Cunningly  wrought  clothes,  made  for  a  nameless  one. 

I  wore  a  white  collar  and  some  one  had  given  me  a  jeweled 
pin 

44 


To  wear  at  my  throat. 

That  amused  and  hurt  me  too. 

No  one  knew  that  I  knelt  in  the  mud  beneath  the  bridge 
In  the  city  of  Chicago. 

You  see  I  am  whispering  my  secret  to  you. 

I  want  you  to  believe  in  my  insanity  and  to  understand 
that  I  love  God— 

That's  want  I  want. 

And  then,  you  see,  it  was  spring 

And  soft  sunlight  came  through  the  cracks  of  the  bridge. 

I  had  been  long  alone  in  a  strange  place  where  no  gods  came. 
Creep,  men,  and  kiss  the  twisted  face  of  my  mud  god. 
I'll  not  hit  you  with  my  bleeding  fists. 
I'm  a  twisted  god  myself. 

It  is  spring  and  love  has  come  to  me — * 
Love  has  come  to  me  and  to  my  men. 


45 


THE  BEAM 

Eighteen  men  stood  by  me  in  my  fall — long  men — strong 
men — see  the  oil  on  their  boots. 

I  was  a  guest  in  the  house  of  my  people.  Through  the  years 
I  clung,  taking  hold  of  their  hands  in  the  darkness.  It 
rained  and  the  roar  of  machines  was  incessant.  Into  the 
house  of  my  people  quiet  would  not  come. 

Eighteen  men  stood  by  me  in  my  fall.  Through  their 
breasts  bars  were  driven.  With  wailing  and  with  weep 
ing  I  ran  back  and  forth.  Then  I  died.  Out  of  the  door 
of  the  house  of  my  people  I  ran.  But  the  eighteen  men 
stood  by  me  in  my  fall. 


SONG  TO  NEW  SONG 

Over  my  city  Chicago  a  singer  arises  to  sing. 

I  greet  thee,  hoarse  and  terrible  singer,  half  man,  half  bird, 

strong,  winged  one. 
I  see  you  float  in  cold  bleak  winds, 
Your  wings  burned  by  the  fires  of  furnaces, 
In  all  your  cries  so  little  that  is  beautiful, 
Only  the  fact  that  you  have  risen  out  of  the  din  and  roar  to 

float  and  wait  and  point  the  way  to  song. 

Back  of  your  grim  city,  singer,  the  long  flat  fields. 

Corn  that  stands  up  in  orderly  rows,  full  of  purpose. 

As  you  float  and  wait,  uttering  your  hoarse  cries 

I  see  new  beauties  in  the  standing  corn, 

And  dream  of  singers  yet  to  come, 

When  you  and  your  rude  kind,  choked  by  the  fury  of  your 

furnaces, 
Have  fallen  dead  upon  this  coal  heap  here. 

Kneeling  in  prayer  I  shall  forget  you  not,  grim  singer, 

Black  bird,  black  against  your  black  smoke-laden  sky, 

Uttering  your  hoarse  and  terrible  cries, 

The  while  you  do  strive  to  catch  and  understand 

The  faint  and  long  forgotten  quality  of  song, 

By  never  sweeter  singers  to  be  sung. 


47 


SONG  FOR  DARK  NIGHTS 

His  Imperial  Majesty  the  Moon! 

Sweep  down,  O  moon,  past  wind-swept  towns  and  culti 
vated  fields, 
Past  me  and  all  my  men  that  yearn  and  strive  toward  gods. 

Lying  in  deep  grass  my  throat  hurts  and  my  body  aches. 

I  am  with  child  to  dreams. 

Cities  new-built  and  all  the  squirming,  changing  hoards  of 
men 

Press  down  on  me. 
They  press  me  deep  into  the  ground. 

In  the  air  above  my  head  men  wriggle  into  life, 

The  male  milk  in  my  breast  begins  to  stir, 
Into  my  body  out  of  many  prairies  wide 

Come  roots  of  thought. 

Since  gods  and  peoples  stood  defying  time, 

Since  men,  like  little  dogs,  have  bayed  the  moon, 

Since  hard-limbed  stags  have  raced  into  the  dawn, 
I  have  been  here,  time  serving  for  my  gods. 

In  the  deep  ground  roots  and  seeds, 

In  my  breast  seeds  growing. 
I'll  not  flame  to  life  and  cry  for  joy. 

My  spirit  breathes  its  story  of  decay. 


THE  LOVER 

All  night  she  walked  and  dreamed  on  the  frozen  road, 
She  the  insane  one,  feeling  not  thinking. 
All  night  she  walked  and  wanted  to  Kill, 
Wanted  to  love  and  kill. 

What  did  she  want? 

Nobody  knew. 

None  of  us  knew  why  she  wanted 

To  kill. 

We  were  the  heavy  ones,  heavy  and  sure. 
The  wind  in  the  cornfields  moved  us  not. 
We  the  Americans,  worthy  and  sure, 
Worthy  and  sure  of  ourselves. 

Tom  killed  his  brother  on  Wednesday  night, 
Back  of  the  corncrib,  under  the  hill. 
Then  she  ran  to  him,  sobbing  and  calling, 
She  who  had  loved  and  could  not  kill. 


49 


NIGHT  WHISPERS 

Just  midnight  quiet  and  a  sundered  cloud, — mother  I  live — 
Aching  and  waiting  to  work  my  way  through. 

You  of  the  long  and  the  gaunt — silent  and  grim  you  stood. 
Terribly  sweet  the  touch  of  your  hand — mother,  reach  down. 

Grey  the  walls  and  long  the  waiting — grey  the  age  dust  on 

the  floor. 
If  they  whip  and  beat  us,  little  mother,  need  we  care? 


SONG  TO  THE  SAP 

In  my  breast  the  sap  of  spring, 

In  my  brain  grey  winter,  bleak  and  hard, 

Through  my  whole  being,  surging  strong  and  sure, 

The  call  of  gods, 

The  forward  push  of  mystery  and  of  life. 

Men,  sweaty  men,  who  walk  on  frozen  roads, 

Or  stand  and  listen  by  the  factory  door, 

Look  up,  men ! 

Stand  hard ! 

On  winds  the  gods  sweep  down. 

In  denser  shadows  by  the  factory  walls, 

In  my  old  cornfields,  broken  where  the  cattie  roam, 

The  shadow  of  the  face  of  God  falls  down. 

From  all  of  Mid-America  a  prayer, 

To  newer,  braver  gods,  to  dawns  and  days, 

To  truth  and  cleaner,  braver  life  we  come. 

Lift  up  a  song, 

My  sweaty  men, 

Lift  up  a  song. 


RHYTHMS 

Sing  low  my  soul — 

To  tear  and  bite 

Is  but  the  madness  of  the  beast. 

Blow  on  thy  wrath, 

Burst  not  thy  bands, 

Be  quiet, 

Wait  until  thy  moment  comes. 

Sweet  in  their  meaning  break  the  allied  winds. 

Now  all  the  tiny  muscles  play  the  tune. 

Man,  strike  to  kill, 

Rise  now  to  sing, 

Now  throw  the  shaft  against  the  wall  of  time. 

Deep  in  my  old  valley  lies  the  naked  man. 

He  is  a  seed, 

Seeds  sleep  in  him. 

My  man  shall  be  the  father  of  a  tribe,  a  race. 

He  is  the  world  and  all  the  world  has  been  asleep  in  him. 


UNBORN 

Swift  across  the  night  a  little  cry, 
Against  the  cold  white  night  a  stain  of  red, 
The  moon  dips  down, 
The  dull  winds  blow. 
My  unborn  son  is  dead. 


53 


NIGHT 

Night. 

We  creep  through  darkness  'neath  a  rotten  wall 

Weighing  a  million  tons. 

In  the  darkness,  silence  and  a  woman's  cry. 

Black  night, 

The  longest,  blackest,  night  of  all  our  lives. 

Dear  France — 

Put  out  your  hand  to  us. 


A  VISIT 

Westward  the  field  of  the  cloth  of  gold. 

It  is  fall — see  the  gold  in  the  dust  of  the  fields. 

Lay  the  golden  cloth  upon  me.     It  is  night  and  I  come 
through  the  streets  to  your  window. 

The  dust  and  the  words  are  all  gone,  brushed  away.    Let 
me  sleep. 


55 


CHANT  TO  DAWN  IN  A  FACTORY  TOWN 

In  the  ground, 

Below  the  great  buildings, 

Below  the  running  of  waters  and  the  threshing  of  feet — 5 

Deep — 

Buried  away — 

Long  forgotten, 

The  spirits  of  strong  men. 

7  hail  thee,  O  love! 

In  the  soft  night  I  have  touched  the  bodies  of  men, 
I  have  touched  with  rough  fingers  the  lips  of  women, 
I  have  become  with  child  to  all  men, 
I,  master  of  life,  embrace  all  men. 

I  hail  thee,  O  love! 

Now,  my  beloved,  the  time  has  come  to  bury  you  in  the 

black  ground  at  the  field's  edge. 
I  am  glad. 

In  my  breast  gladness  is  singing. 
Now  the  great  engines  roar  and  thrust  out. 
The  unconquerable  one  goes  through  the  ground  to  my 

desire. 

In  the  long  night, 
In  the  long  day, 
Below  and  above, 
New  song,  come  to  life. 

Behold! 

Song  is  consuming  the  terrible  engine  of  life. 

56 


/  greet  thee,  O  love. 

In  the  fields 

Seeds  on  the  air  floating. 

In  the  towns 

Black  smoke  for  a  shroud. 

In  my  breast 

Understanding  awake. 

In  my  breast  the  growth  of  ages, 

In  my  breast  the  growth  of  ages, 

At  the  field's  edge, 

By  the  town's  edge, 

In  my  breast  the  growth  of  ages. 

My  beloved, 

White,  like  the  lips  of  the  dead  Christ, 

Far  below, 

In  the  black  ground, 

I  hail  thee>  O  love! 
I  hail  thee,  O  love! 

In  my  breast  the  growth  of  ages. 
In  my  breast  the  growth  of  ages. 


57 


SONG  OF  THE  MATING  TIME 

Out  of  the  cornfields  at  daybreak, 

Ready  to  run  through  the  dawn  to  the  place  of  beginning, 
Creeping,  I  come,  out  of  the  corn, 

Wet  with  the  juice  of  bruised  corn  leaves — out  of  the  corn 
I  come. 

Eager  to  kiss  the  fingers  of  queens, 

Eager  to  stand  with  kings, 

To  breed  my  kind  and  stand  with  kings. 

Out  of  the  com  at  daybreak, 

Brother  to  dogs, 

Big  brother  to  creeping,  crawling  things, 

Stretched  full  length  on  the  long  wet  grass  at  the  edge  of 

the  cornfields, 
Waiting, 
Here  I  lie  through  the  day,  waiting  and  waiting. 

Come,  tired  little  sister,  run  with  me. 
See — I  kiss  your  lips — soft — to  entice  you. 
In  the  still  young  night  we  begin  our  running, 
Stripping  our  clothes  away. 

Skirting  the  towns,  passing  the  lonely  houses, 

Staying  away  from  the  sleeping  cities, 

Running  forever — on  and  on — into  the  empire  of  the  corn. 

Come,  tired  little  sister,  run  with  me. 
Do  you  know  my  brother,  the  farmer? 
Now  he  grows  discouraged  and  weeps. 

58 


I  saw  him  kneeling  and  praying  alone,  by  a  destroyed  wheat 

field. 

It  was  the  time  of  learning  for  me. 
I  fairly  choked. 
It  was  the  beginning  of  faith  in  the  gods  for  me. 

Up  now,  little  short-winded  sister  thing, 
I'll  make  love  to  you  after  awhile. 
Save  your  strength. 
Let's  be  running. 
Let's  be  running. 

See  the  trains  in  the  long  flat  fields  at  night, 
The  screaming  trains — yellow  and  black. 
In  and  out  of  the  land  they  go — 
Yellow  and  black — screaming  and  shrieking. 

Come,  tired  little  sister,  run  with  me. 

Let's  lie  down  on  this  hill-side  here. 

Let  our  soft  mid-western  nights  creep  into  you. 

See  the  little  things,  creeping,  creeping, 

Hear,  in  the  night,  the  little  things  creeping. 

Let's  be  creeping. 

Let's  be  creeping. 

I've  got  a  strong  man's  love  for  you. 

See  the  muscles  of  my  legs — how  tense. 

Now  I  leap  and  cry  like  a  strong  young  stallion. 

Let's  away. 

West  of  Chicago  the  endless  cornfields. 

Let's  be  running. 

Come  away. 

59 


SONG  FOR  LONELY  ROADS 

Now  let  us  understand  each  other,  love, 
Long  time  ago  I  crept  off  home, 
To  my  own  gods  I  went. 

The  tale  is  old, 

It  has  been  told 

By  many  men  in  many  lands. 

The  lands  belong  to  those  who  tell. 

Now  surely  that  is  clear. 

After  the  plow  had  westward  swept, 

The  gods  bestowed  the  corn  to  stand. 

Long,  long  it  stood, 

Strong,  strong  it  grew, 

To  make  a  forest  for  new  song. 

Deep  in  the  corn  the  bargain  hard 

Youth  with  the  gods  drove  home. 

The  gods  remember, 

Youth  forgets. 

Doubt  not  the  soul  of  song  that  waits. 

The  singer  dies, 

The  singer  lives, 

The  gods  wait  in  the  corn, 

The  soul  of  song  is  in  the  land. 

Lift  up  your  lips  to  that. 


60 


SONG  LONG  AFTER 

Was  that  all  you  could  do,  Woman — loving  and  giving? 

You  went  pretty  far — I  admire  you  for  that.  Do  you  re 
member  the  night  in  the  upper  room  when  he  cried'?  He 
needed  you  then — God  knows  he  needed  you  then. 

Down  below  the  others  were  waiting — Judas  and  Peter  and 
John — old  men — mighty  wise.  He  was  crucified  for 
them.  At  night  when  the  stars  came  he  went  out  alone 
— long  after  that. 

How  did  you  know  what  you  did  know,  Woman?    That 

puzzles  me. 
How  could  you  go  that  far  and  stop? 

Was  that  all  you  could  do,  Woman — loving  and  giving? 


61 


SONG  OF  THE  SOUL  OF  CHICAGO 

On  the  bridges,  on  the  bridges — swooping  and  rising,  whirl 
ing  and  circling — back  to  the  bridges,  always  the  bridges. 


I'll  talk  forever — I'm  damned  if  I'll  sing.  Don't  you  see 
that  mine  is  not  a  singing  people?  We're  just  a  lot  of 
muddy  things  caught  up  by  the  stream.  You  can't  fool 
us.  Don't  we  know  ourselves? 

Here  we  are,  out  here  in  Chicago.  You  think  we're  not 
humble?  You're  a  liar.  We  are  like  the  sewerage  of  our 
town,  swept  up  stream  by  a  kind  of  mechanical  triumph 
— that's  what  we  are. 

On  the  bridges,  on  the  bridges — wagons  and  motors,  horses 
and  men — not  flying,  just  tearing  along  and  swearing. 

By  God  we'll  love  each  other  or  die  trying.  We'll  get  to 
understanding  too.  In  some  grim  way  our  own  song  shall 
work  through. 

We'll  stay  down  in  the  muddy  depths  of  our  stream — we 
will.  There  can't  any  poet  come  out  here  and  sit  on  the 
shaky  rail  of  our  ugly  bridges  and  sing  us  into  paradise. 

We're  finding  out — that's  what  I  want  to  say.  We'll  get 
at  our  own  thing  out  here  or  die  for  it.  We're  going 
down,  numberless  thousands  of  us,  into  ugly  oblivion. 
We  know  that. 

62 


But  say,  bards,  you  keep  off  our  bridges.  Keep  out  of  our 
dreams,  dreamers.  We  want  to  give  this  democracy  thing 
they  talk  so  big  about  a  whirl.  We  want  to  see  if  we 
are  any  good  out  here,  we  Americans  from  all  over  hell. 
That's  what  we  want. 


SONG  OF  THE  DRUNKEN  BUSINESS  MAN 

Don't  try,  little  one,  to  keep  hold  of  me, 
Go  home !    There's  a  place  for  you  by  the  fire. 
Age  is  waiting  to  welcome  you  there. 
Go  home  and  sit  by  the  fire. 

Into  the  naked  street  I  ran, 
Roaring  and  bellowing  like  a  cow, 
Shaking  the  walls  of  the  houses  down, 
Proclaiming  my  dream  of  black  desire. 

If  there's  a  thing  in  this  world  that's  good  it's  guts. 
I'm  a  blackbird  hovering  over  the  land. 
Go  on  home !    Let  me  alone. 

Do  you  know,  little  dove,  I  admire  your  lips — 
They're  so  red. 

What  are  you  doing  out  in  the  street? 
Take  my  arm !    Look  at  me ! 

Ah,  you  be  gone.    I'm  sixty-five  years  old  to-night. 
Now  what's  the  use  of  beginning  again? 


SONG  TO  THE  LAUGH 

All  night  we  lay  in  the  cold  and  the  rain  in  the  midst  of  the 

laughter, 

The  laughter  of  weaklings, 
The  laughter  of  women, 
The  laughter  of  those  who  were  strong. 

At  the  end  of  the  lane  we  lay,  beyond  the  roar  and  the 
rattle. 

Hark!     In  the  silence  the  laughter! 

Strong  men  creeping, 

Old  men  creeping, 

Old  men  and  children,  creeping  and  creeping — 

Far  away  in  the  darkness. 

Edward,  my  son, 
Thomas,  my  man, 

Why  do  you  creep  all  night  in  the  darkness? 
Why  do  you  creep  and  wait  to  strike  at  night  in  the  dark 
ness"? 

Nine!    Ten!    Twelve! 
Nine!    Ten!    Twelve! 

Take  the  knife  from  the  shield  and  strike  in  the  darkness. 
Strike,  man !     Strike ! 

All  night  we  lay  in  the  cold  and  wet  at  the  edge  of  the 

darkness. 
65 


Trembling  with  fear  we  prepared  to  welcome  the  knife 

thrust. 

Then  we  kissed  and  our  bodies  caressed. 
We  prepared,  my  beloved,  to  add  our  voices  to  those  of  the 

others. 
In  the  cold  and  wet  we  crept  and  laughed  in  the  darkness. 


66 


HOSANNA 

The  cornfields  shall  be  the  mothers  of  men.  They  are  rich 
with  the  milk  that  shall  suckle  men.  The  bearded  men 
shall  arise.  They  shall  come  sturdy  and  strong  out  of  the 

West. 

YOU  may  prick  the  new  men  with  spears.  Their  blood  shall 
run  out  on  the  snow  but  they  are  my  men  and  shall 
survive. 

I  am  a  child  and  I  weep.    My  hands  are  red  and  cold. 
I  run  along  and  blow  upon  them. 

In  me  is  the  blood  of  the  strong  men.  A  little  I  have 
endured  and  shall  endure.  I  am  of  the  blood  of  strong 
bearded  men.  The  milk  of  the  corn  is  in  me. 

Sweet,  sweet,  the  thought  of  the  new  men.  I  am  cold  and 
run  through  the  streets  of  Chicago.  I  blow  upon  my  red 
hands.  Sweet,  sweet  the  thought  of  the  new  men. 


67 


WAR 

Long  lanes  of  fire,  dead  cornstalks  burning, 
Run  now — head  downward — plunging  and  crying, 
Hold  hard  the  breath  now, 
Forward  we  run. 

Out  of  Nebraska,  on  into  Kansas,  now  the  word  runs, 
Runs  with  the  wind,  runs  with  the  news  of  war,  crying  and 

screaming. 
Now  the  word  runs. 

Out  on  low  ridges,  black  'gainst  the  night  sky; 
Farmer  boys  running,  factory  boys  running; 
Boys  from  Ohio 
And  my  Illinois. 

Questions  and  answers,  over  the  land, 
Questions  that  hurt,  answers  that  hurt, 
Questions  of  courage 
That  cannot  but  hurt. 

Deep  in  the  cornfields  the  gods  come  to  life, 
Gods  that  have  waited,  gods  that  we  knew  not. 
Gods  come  to  life 
In  America  now. 


68 


MID-AMERICAN  PRAYER 

I  sang  there — I  dreamed  there — I  was  suckled  face  down 
ward  in  the  black  earth  of  my  western  cornland. 

I  remember  as  though  it  were  yesterday  how  I  first  began 
to  stand  up. 

All  about  me  the  corn — in  the  night  the  fields  mysterious 
and  vast — voices  of  Indians — names  remembered — mur- 
murings  of  winds — the  secret  mutterings  of  my  own 
young  boyhood  and  manhood. 

The  men  and  women  among  whom  I  lived  destroyed  my 
ability  to  pray.  The  sons  of  New  Englanders,  who 
brought  books  and  smart  sayings  into  our  Mid-America, 
destroyed  the  faith  in  me  that  came  out  of  the  ground. 

But  in  my  own  way  I  crept  out  beyond  that.  I  did  pray — 
in  the  night  by  a  strip  of  broken  rail  fence — in  the  rain — 
walking  alone  in  meadows — in  the  hundred  secret  places 
that  youth  knows  I  tried  to  find  the  way  to  gods.  Now 
you  see  how  confusing  life  is. 

There  were  my  cornfields  that  I  loved — what  whisperings 
there — what  daring  dreams — what  deep  hopes — what 
memories  of  true  old  savages,  Indians  striving  toward 
gods,  dancing  and  fighting  and  praying  while  they  said 
big  words — medicine  words. 

And  all  this  in  the  long  cornfields. 

And  then  in  the  fall  the  crackling  of  cornleaves,  the  smells, 
sights  and  sounds. 

The  corn  stood  up  like  armies  in  the  shocks. 

When  I  was  a  boy  I  went  into  the  cornfields  at  night.     I 
said  words  I  had  not  dared  to  say  to  people,  defying  the 
69 


New  Englanders'  gods,  trying  to  find  honest,  mid-western 

American  gods. 
And  all  the  time  the  fields  spread  west  and  west.     An 

empire  was  building. 
Towns  grew  up,  factories  multiplied. 
You  see  the  corn  had  come  into  its  own  but  that  destroyed 

too. 
I  and  my  men  stood  up  but  we  grew  fat.     We  lived  in 

houses  in  cities  and  we  forgot  the  fields  and  the  praying 

— the  lurking  sounds,  sights,  smells  of  old  things. 
Now  I  am  ashamed  and  many  of  my  men  are  ashamed. 
I  cannot  tell  how  deep  my  shame  lies. 
I  walk  in  the  streets  seeing  my  own  well-clad  body  and  my 

fat  hands  with  shame. 

I  am  thinking  of  lean  men  fighting  in  many  places  over  the 
world.  I  am  thinking  of  the  voices  of  my  own  gods  for 
gotten  in  the  fields. 

And  now  at  last  after  my  long  fatness  I  begin  to  get  the  old 
whisperings. 

I  go  along  here  in  Chicago  praying  and  saying  words.  Not 
the  shouting  and  the  waving  of  flags  but  something  else 
creeps  into  me. 

You  see,  dear  brothers  of  the  world,  I  dream  of  new  and 
more  subtile  loves  for  me  and  my  men. 

My  mind  leaps  forward  and  I  think  of  the  time  when  our 
hands,  no  longer  fat,  may  touch  even  the  lean  dear  hands 
of  France,  when  we  also  have  suffered  and  got  back  to 
prayer. 

Conceive  if  you  will  the  mightiness  of  that  dream,  that  these 
fields  and  places,  out  here  west  of  Pittsburgh,  may  be- 
70 


come  sacred  places,  that  because  of  this  terrible  thing,  of 
which  we  may  now  become  a  part,  there  is  hope  of  hard 
ness  and  leanness — that  we  may  get  to  lives  of  which  we 
may  be  unashamed. 

Above  the  old  half-lost  shadows,  that  lurk  over  our  corn 
fields,  now  something  more  than  Indians  that  dance  in 
the  moonlight. 

Now  older,  older  things — bearded  Slavs  dreaming  far  back, 
stout  Englishmen  marching  under  Cromwell,  Franks  and 
Celts,  presently  Scandinavians  too. 

These  to  our  cornfields,  the  old  dreams  and  prayers  and 
thoughts  of  these  men  sweetening  our  broad  land  and  get 
ting  even  into  our  shops  and  into  the  shadows  that  lurk 
by  our  factory  doors. 

It  is  the  time  of  the  opening  of  doors. 

No  talk  now  of  what  we  can  do  for  the  old  world. 

Talk  and  dream  now  of  what  the  old  world  can  bring  to  us 
— the  true  sense  of  real  suffering  out  of  which  may  come 
the  sweeter  brotherhood. 

God,  lead  us  to  the  fields  now.  Suns  for  us  and  rains  for 
us  and  a  prayer  for  every  growing  thing. 

May  our  fields  become  our  sacred  places. 

May  we  have  courage  to  choke  with  our  man's  hate  him  who 
would  profit  by  the  suffering  of  the  world. 

May  we  strip  ourself  clean  and  go  hungry  that  after  this 
terrible  storm  has  passed  our  sacred  fields  may  feed  Ger 
man,  Jew  and  Japanese. 

May  the  sound  of  enmity  die  in  the  groaning  of  growing 
things  in  our  fields. 


May  we  get  to  gods  and  the  greater  brotherhood  through 
growth  springing  out  of  the  destruction  of  men. 

For  all  of  Mid-America  the  greater  prayer  and  the  birth  of 
humbleness. 


WE  ENTER  IN 

Now  you  see,  brothers,  here  in  the  West,  here's  how  it  is — 

We  stand  and  fall,  we  hesitate — 

It  is  all  new  to  us, 

To  kill,  to  take  a  fellow's  life. 

Uh ! — a  nauseous  fever  takes  the  light  away. 

Now  we  stand  up  and  enter  in. 
The  baseness  of  the  deed  we  too  embrace. 
We  go  in  dumbly — into  that  dark  place. 
The  germ  of  death  we  take  into  our  veins. 

Do  we  not  know  that  we  ourselves  have  failed? 

Our  valleys  wide,  our  long  green  fields 

We  have  bectrewn  with  our  own  dead. 

In  shop  and  mart  we  have  befouled  our  souls. 

Our  corn  is  withered  and  our  faces  black 

With  smoke  of  hate. 

We  make  the  gesture  and  we  go  to  die. 

Had  we  been  true  to  our  own  land  our  sweetness  then  had 

quite  remade  the  world. 
We  now  are  true  to  failure  grim — 
We  go  in  prayer  to  die. 

To  our  own  souls  we  take  the  killer's  sin. 
Into  the  waters  black  our  souls  we  fling. 
We  take  the  chances  of  the  broader  dream. 
Not  ours  but  all  the  worlds — our  fields. 
We  enter  in. 

73 


DIRGE  OF  WAR 

It  begins  with  little  creeping  pains  that  run  across  the  breast. 
Good-bye,  brother.  I  see  your  arm  is  withered  and  your 
lusts  are  dead.  I  did  not  think  the  end  would  come  so 
soon.  It  has — good-bye. 

In  the  night  we  remembered  to  believe  in  hell.  Wide  we 
threw  the  window  to  behold  the  fog.  Men  stumbled  in 
the  darkness — a  cry  arose — then  came  war. 

Now,  brother — let's  ponder — say  we  draw  apart.  Woman 
come  to  fatherhood  and  the  world  upset.  My  little 
naked  soldiers  are  playing  on  the  floor.  I  strike  and  bid 
you  go.  If  you  go,  all  is  gone. 

There  is  a  thing  you  must  do — let's  get  back  to  that. 
You  must  strike  out  alone,  get  out  of  this  room.  You 
must  go  upon  your  journey.  Don't  stay  here — now  be 
gone — good-bye. 

The  gray  and  purple  lesson  of  the  night  comes  on.  What 
we  dare  not  face  must  now  come  home  to  us.  Hear  the 
guns — dull — in  the  night. 

Back  of  us  our  fathers — let  that  go.  Don't  confuse  us 
here — alone — with  memories  that  can't  stand — and  run 
— in  our  night.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want — be  still. 

I  want  to  creep  and  creep  and  lie  face  downward  on  the  rim 
of  hell.  I  want  your  breathing  body  to  be  torn  from  me. 
I  want  hell  and  guns  to  be  stilled  by  the  aching  thrust  of 

74 


new  things  into  life.     I  want  death  perfect  and  new  love 
achieved.     I  want  much. 

Believe  it  or  not  I  actually  did  run  in  the  dusty  hallways  of 
my  own  life  before  this  began.  I  went  into  the  long 
empty  halls,  breathed  the  stale  dust  of  all  old  things. 

I  knew  and  yet  I  did  not  know.  That's  what  I  want  to 
say — by  song  and  by  the  j  arring  note  of  song  that  cannot 
sing. 

I  was  coming  with  America — dreaming  with  America — hop 
ing  with  America — then  war  came. 

I'm  an  aching  old  thing  and  the  dream  come  true.  I  am 
sick  with  my  last  sickness  here  alone.  I  am  creeping, 
creeping,  creeping — in  the  night — in  the  halls.  I  am 
death — I  am  war- — I  am  hate. 

And  that's  all,  brother.  I  dare  not  hope.  The  childishness 
has  left  me.  I  am  dead.  Over  the  fields  a  shriek — a 
cry.  I  pay  my  fare  to  hell — I  die — I  die. 


75 


LITTLE  SONG  TO  A  WESTERN  STATESMAN 

Well,  I'm  for  you,  little  worm, 

Coming  to  the  surface  of  the  ground  on  warm,  wet  days, 

Digging  deep  down  when  it  is  dry  and  cold — 

Who  elected  you  to  serve  in  the  United  States  Senate,  eh? 

Say,  you  are  funny  in  that  black  frock  coat, 

Funny  as  me,  with  my  fat  cheeks  and  brown  woven  coat  too. 

Where'd  we  get  our  clothes? 

Who  made  them  for  us? 

You  must  get  serious,  now  and  then, 

In  the  night  when  it  is  dark  and  wild  winds  blow. 

I  do.     I  weep  and  pray  and  have  big  thoughts. 

That's  what  makes  life  seem  so  strange  and  unbelievable 

to  me. 
You  understand,  eh? 


SONG  OF  THE  BUG 

Now  I  sing  to  you  the  song  of  my  kind  that  you  do  not 

understand, 

I,  the  tiny  thing,  swift  dancing  on  a  beam  of  light. 
A  fillip  for  your  understanding! 

On  I  go  in  my  own  way  doing  my  own  work, 

Biting  the  tender  legs  of  other  little  bugs, 

Spraying  my  spermatozoa  on  the  warm  ovaries  of  female 

bugs, 
Undermining  the  walls  of  tall  man-made  towers. 

There  is  a  certain  dignity  in  my  life  if  you  could  but  under 
stand  it, 

You  great  bug  that  keep  thinking  such  almighty  thoughts, 
Hark  to  the  little  song  of  my  kind. 
It  would  be  well  for  you  if  you  could  understand  that. 


77 


ASSURANCE 

I  have  heard  gods  whispering  in  the  com  and  wind ; 
In  my  crude  times  when  thoughts  leaped  forth, 
Conquering,  destroying,  serving  steel  and  iron, 
I  have  run  back  to  gods,  to  prayers  and  dreams. 
I  have  dreamed  much  and  have  remembered  dreams. 

Now  in  this  room,  a  face  stands  forth, 

A  narrow  face,  with  many  shadows  hid  'twixt  brow  and 

chin. 

The  face  half  turns, 
It  tells  its  tale  to  me, 
Now  down  the  drumming  way  of  time  it  goes  and  leaves  me 

shaken  here. 

Now  woman  and  tall  man, 

My  little  brother  who  has  passed  my  way, 

Bestow  a  kiss  on  me. 

Turn  quick  thy  face,  let  what  is  old  grow  new. 

Strike  in  the  darkness  at  the  horrid  lie. 

Laugh  now  and  pass  along. 

I  remember  you  forever  for  a  moment's  love. 

I  pass  to  you  the  message  in  the  long  relay. 

Are  you  brave — do  you  dare — will  you  try? 

See,  I  take  the  death  that  came  into  the  room  to  you. 

A  face  remembered,  a  desire  forgot, 

A  word  caught  drifting  in  the  long  detour, 

78 


A  caress  to  you,  a  swift  hail  to  you. 
Forget — remember — dare  to  cling  to  me, 
Now  wait  you  in  the  darkness 
Till  the  moment  comes. 


REMINISCENT  SONG 

Now  you  are  dear  to  me, 

Now  my  beloved. 

You  are  the  one  that  I  did  not  take. 

Even  then, 

When  my  body  was  young, 

When  the  sweetness  of  you  made  me  drunk, 

You  are  the  one  that  I  did  not  take. 

All  that  is  old  came  into  me, 

That  night  by  the  bush  and  the  stairs  in  the  dark. 

Yours  were  the  lips  I  did  not  kiss, 

Yours  the  love  that  I  kept. 

Long  and  long  I  have  walked  alone, 
Past  the  cornfields  and  over  the  bridge, 
Sucking  the  sweetness  out  of  nights, 
Dreaming  things  that  have  made  me  old 
And  young, 
Since  that  night. 

Faring  away  down  a  lonely  road 

Now  you  must  go,  my  beloved, 

Thinking  your  thoughts  in  the  bitter  nights* 

You  that  I  loved  and  did  not  take. 


80 


EVENING  SONG 

Back  of  Chicago  the  open  fields — were  you  ever  there? 
Trains  coming  toward  you  out  of  the  West — 
Streaks  of  light  on  the  long  grey  plains'? — many  a  song- 
Aching  to  sing. 

I've  got  a  grey  anu  ragged  brother  in  my  breast — 
That's  a  fact. 

Back  of  Chicago  the  open  fields — were  you  ever  there*? 

Trains  going  from  you  into  the  West — 

Clouds  of  dust  on  the  long  grey  plains. 

Long  trains  go  West,  too — in  the  silence 

Always  the  song — 

Waiting  to  sing. 


81 


SONG  OF  THE  SINGER 

Drunken  and  staggering — 

Saying  all  profane  things — 

Kissing  your  hands  to  the  gods — 

In  the  night  praying  and  whimpering — 

Aching  to  sing  and  not  singing — 

You— 

My  brother. 

Beating  upon  it  with  fists — 

Trying  to  shake  it  off — 

Hoping  and  dreaming  you  will  emerge — 

My  sister. 

I  wrap  my  arms  about  you  that  hunger. 

In  the  long  hair  of  my  breast  there  is  warmth. 

I  look  far  into  the  future  beyond  the  noise  and  the  clatter. 

I  will  not  be  crushed  by  the  iron  machine. 

Sing. 

Dare  to  sing. 

Kiss  the  mouth  of  song  with  your  lips. 

In  the  morning  and  in  the  evening 

Trust  to  the  terribk  Strength  of  indomitable  song. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 

Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  priod  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

REC'D  LD    MAY  1 9  72  -2  PNI  8  9 


BBTSlfl  JL1    72-4PM4f 


OCT241974  32 


MAY  9.  7  2001 


SEP  3  01974 


IQAN 


UC  BERKELEY 


DEC  1  9  2003 


1* 

ENVI 

At) 

FEB  30197$     ' 

- 

BLOTTO  MflR     ?  78 

- 

VBtCfll      MAKlC 

78 

LD21A-60m-8,'70 
(N8837slO)476 — A-32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


LD  21A-50m-4,'59 
(Al724slO)476B 


^neral  Library 
University  of  California 
Berkeley 


UNIVERSITY  OF/CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


B    M    102    IflM 


